


Dead. And at that angle? Alive.

by Unseen_Academical



Series: The Harry Potter plot ideas that won't go away so here we are. [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Azkaban, Broken Harry, But he still got enough fire to see things burn, Captivity, Dark, Dark Harry, Death Eaters, Dementors, Descent into Madness, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, Harry is accused of Cedric's death, Harry is still Harry, He is just going through hell, Horcruxes, Insanity, Madness, Possession, Possessive Behavior, Possibly Pre-Slash, Soul Bond, like more so than usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:34:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26414254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unseen_Academical/pseuds/Unseen_Academical
Summary: After witnessing the traumatic death of Cedric Diggory at the hand of Lord Voldemort, Harry comes back to Hogwarts only to be accused of the murder. Things wrap up from miserable to outwrite terrible, as a the boundary between dream and reality blurs for Harry, and a connection is left free to fester unchecked.
Relationships: Bellatrix Black Lestrange & Harry Potter, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Series: The Harry Potter plot ideas that won't go away so here we are. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2100300
Comments: 98
Kudos: 513
Collections: ariana's hp fic collection





	1. A single misstep

_When I was girl, I dreamt of standing in a room, looking at a girl who was and was not myself, who stood looking at another girl who was and was not myself. My mother took this as a nightmare. I saw it as the beginning of a career in physics._

Rosalind Lutece

_Depending on the possibility something had, has, or would have to happen, one can surmise it has, is, will be happening. The nature of reality as expressed in the instant is the possible and therefore, all possible define a reality. Muggles have been investigating this conundrum in recent years under the guise of the Theory of Multiple Universe._

Archimage Quentin Addendum

* * *

The rain was rattling outside, but he’d long gone past noticing. A thick humidity was chocking his lungs, clamping his skin cold and running sick under his cloths. It stuck the grim and mud of the little cell, driving the place into his mind and bones. A tangible remainder to his withering mind he was …

Prisoner.

All it had taken was a moment of weakness. A moment of doubt and despair. Facing the man, the monster who kept dragging himself back from the tomb to hunt him like a famished dog of nightmare, his hope had wavered. Cedric was dead. Voldemort was back into his power.

Oh, he had gathered his courage, fought in the mock duel passing as his execution that Voldemort had been so glad to stage. He had fought tooth and nail for his survival. But when their wands had connected, and he’d lost control of his magic, he had panicked. One moment of panic and despair had been enough for one of the beads of light coursing the link between their two wands to pass from Voldemort’s wand to his.

One, tiny, difference.

Water had infiltrated the cell now and was dropping slowly on the stone floor. The drip was maddening, regular, but not quite. Unseeing green eyes bore on the slowly glowing puddle. He blinked once, twice, and some kind of realisation slowly wormed its way.

It was dark outside. Even his cellmate’s ramble had died down by now. He ought to try and sleep.

Not that he’d succeeded in getting any real sleep since they’d taken him to Azkaban.

* * *

_The crowd, the music, the cheers… Too much, too loud. Don’t they see? Don’t they realise??_

_Harry felt like a griffin had ripped his chest open, cradling Cedric’s body and hanging on desperately to the dead boy like a drowning man to a lifeline._

_‘He's back! Voldemort's back.’ He cried. ‘Cedric, he asked me to bring his body back. I couldn't leave him, not there.’ He sobbed brokenly._

_‘It's alright Harry. It's alright, he's home, you both are.’_

Harry whimpered as the nightmare assaulted him, knowing in his unconscious the events that were about to unfold. His body twisted in a desperate attempt to wrench free.

But there was no escape.

_‘Let me go!’ He screamed to the top of his lungs to the two aurors manhandling him. He could hear the mad laughter of the man that had passed for his defence professor echoing against the stone walls, mocking him. ‘I’m innocent! It was Voldemort! He is back! He killed Cedric! Let me go!’_

_‘Enough!’ Fudge snapped. ‘Silence him! We do not want to start a panic.’_

_One of the aurors let him go only long enough to charm a gag on his mouth, before proceeding to drag him away._

_‘Fudge, this is completely unacceptable.’ Dumbledore stated in a dark, authoritative tone. ‘Harry is a student….’_

_‘Suspected of the murder of one of his classmates.’ Fudge interrupted sharply. ‘His wand has provided evidence! One of the last spells he casted was the killing curse and that’s evidence enough to take him in custody.’_

_Dumbledore moved on to object, but for the first time in his life the Minister stood his ground to the old headmaster._

_‘ **This** is me applying the wizarding law, Albus, and you **will not** interfere. If the boy is innocent, he will be cleared during the inquiry or the trial.’_

* * *

The inquiry had taken three weeks. A weeklong search, which the headmaster had spent running all across Britain without a moment respite, trying to find evidence, proofs, or witnesses of Harry’s innocence. But proofs had been concealed. Those who knew wouldn’t talk and those who didn’t wouldn’t hear. 

* * *

There was a section of Azkaban dedicated to custody. A place to keep people who had not yet been proven guilty, and therefore were not to be exposed yet to the prison’s… permanent guards. But to Harry it still felt terrible. It felt like this moment when the Hogwarts Express had stopped and he had felt incoming dread, before the Dementors had showed up.

In the custody section it felt like this moment of dread was stretched to the limit of sanity.

Somehow Barty Crouch Jr. had been placed in the jail across his. Harry had caught from the aurors he needed to undergo trial to determine wherever he’d be placed in a cell deeper the pit as he had been before his escape.

The mad man kept asking him question. The litany seemed to be going on indefinitely like a never-ending stream of the man’s adoration for the Dark Lord. At the beginning Harry had stubbornly ignored him. But as the hours passed and crawled on him like the rain on Azkaban’s wall, he’d found himself falling into a trance like fascination for the man’s world. He never answered Crouch, but now when he laid on the floor of the cold cell, the silvering litany was like a thread to the real world. To reason.

Or unreason.

He caught the guard speaking once. Apparently, they would have to ask for one more person on the patrols. The Dementors were being uncannily curious and they kept having to refresh the Patronus charm protecting the custody area.

Somehow in his dizzy brain, Harry registered this was not curious. It was because he was here. Dementors had always been attracted to him.

* * *

It was not until the day of the audience that Albus Dumbledore saw Harry Potter again.

He had had… worrisome reports from an auror he new that was currently posted in Azkaban. He had not met with Harry himself, but word had gone around the custody had taken a toll on the boy. Visits right had been refused due to the ‘sensitive nature of the inquiry’. Azkaban was a dreadful place and the relic of an outdated and archaic judiciary system. But as bright as he was, he could not fight every battle and this one was a sore point to him, and the magical world at large even if it went largely ignored.

Because as much as people fooled themselves in pretending, they needed Azkaban, and that the criminals hosted there deserved their punishment, the real point was… they had no choice. They needed Azkaban, but not to keep the criminals there. They needed Azkaban to keep the **guards** away.

He hoped Harry would recover quickly from his stay in this place of dread. Because surely, they didn’t intend to send him **back**.

He pushed the door of the courtroom and the active chatter that had been buzzing as everybody was taking their seat dimmed somehow, as part of the courtroom’s attention turned to him. He gave a curt nod to Fudge, ignoring the blazing glare the man was sending his was, and took his seat as the witness for the defence.

Silence fell over the court as Potter was escorted inside by two weary looking aurors. He was shown his seat and they retreated to the back. Harry looked terrible, Albus thought grimly. He looked lost in his own head, a look he had witnessed on many Azkaban prisoned but never on such a short notice. The traumatism of the events he’d witnessed, and the absence of his friends must have sent him down spiralling faster than expected. 

‘Disciplinary hearing of the 12th of July into offenses committed by Harry James Potter resident at number 4 Privet Drive Little Whinging, Surrey. The charges against the accused are as follow. That he did knowingly perform the killing curse on his classmate Cedric Diggory. This charge encompasses murder of a fellow wizard British citizen and a break on the ban of one rightfully named unforgivable curses.’ Fudge stopped in his tirade, casting a look down on Harry. ‘Do you deny casting the unforgivable?’

There was a lull as the whole court held their breath. There had been rumours, that Potter had claimed the return of who-he-must-not-be-named as he had been dragged from Hogwarts, that he’d denied killing Diggory’s son. The silence stretched on, before the question seemingly registered to Harry.

‘I didn’t do it.’ He finally breathed.

Albus took a relieved breath. Things would have gone difficult if Harry had not been capable to defend himself.

‘I see,’ Fudge narrowed his eyes. ‘Do you deny as well the murder of Cedric Diggory?’

A flame lit up in Harry’s eyes at the mention of Cedric, and his temper flared from his catatonic state.

‘I do! I didn’t kill Cedric! It was Voldemort! I was there, I saw Cedric…’ he swallowed, his eyes fogging up for a second, ‘die. I saw him being murdered.’

‘A telling tale with no proofs.’

At this statement, Fudge eyes flickered worriedly to Dumbledore, but the man kept grimly silent. He had no proof for Harry’s innocence. From the few words he’d gotten from Harry that day, before he was taken in custody, he’d formed a theory about how the killing curse signature had been swallowed by Harry’s wand, but even he had to admit it was too close to an academic guess to be of use in a trial. At best it would discredit them both and make things more difficult.

‘The wand of Harry James Potter was proven to have cast the killing curse mere minutes before he showed up clutching the body of his adversary in the Triwizard tournament. In face with these terrible facts I advise the strongest punishment and imprisonment for life in Azkaban.’

A few people gasped in surprise, but a worrying majority of the courtroom just looked grim.

‘Cornelius,’ Albus chocked out of surprise and dread, ‘surely not? Harry is a minor and his guilt is not established. Surely home arrest until further facts come up…’

‘Dumbledore, Harry Potter’s guardian are muggle not befitting house arrest mandatory requirements. Moreover, and if the gravity of his last act is not enough to disincline the jury of such measure, I will recall he is a multi-offender. In July 1992 he breached underage restriction on magic use outside the school and last year he assaulted his aunt using an engorging charm on her. Let the jury keep these facts in mind to judge Mr Potter’s case.’

* * *

The debates had gone on for hours. Dumbledore had pleaded, pulled every string he knew and played the political game he had mastered over the year, but nothing had made it. Something had frightened the courtroom. Harry statement had brought them back fifteen years ago. And they had acted like they would have then.

The sentence had fallen.

Guilty as charged. 30 years in Azkaban.

Dumbledore couldn’t believe it.

The aurors had moved back to grasps Harry and the sentence had finally registered to the disoriented boy. He pushed back the aurors, fighting tooth and nails not to be dragged out.

‘I won’t go back, I won’t! I am telling the truth!’ He shrieked, terrified. ‘I am telling the truth!’

Albus tried to reach out to him, to comfort despite having no word of comfort for the young man. He touched Harry’s arm, but he recoiled as if he’d burned him.

‘You…’ Harry’s eyes snapped up to his. ‘It’s your fault!’ He seethed in a blind rage.

‘Harry, I never…’

But what he saw in Harry’s eyes cut his sentence short. A flash of crimson, and a look of pure hatred. Actually, if the auror had not moved on to stun Harry, Dumbledore was quite sure he would have lunged for his throat. As he witnessed in dismay the young man he’d so fondly seen growing being taken out of the courtroom, an insidious and poisonous thought wormed its way in his brain.

Perhaps Harry being locked up would be for the greater good.


	2. Tethering the edge

‘Wotcher Harry!’ Someone enthusiastically shouted from his cell door. ‘You got visitors!’

Harry blinked, and tried to shake the heavy haze that seemed to have comfortably slipped under his skin. Before he had much chance of doing so, he was engulfed under a crushing hug and a mass of bushy hairs.

‘Oh Harry! How are you holding up? Oh Harry I can’t believe they dared to do that ! That they would… How could they…’

‘Hermione, let him breath.’ Ron’s voice filtered from behind.

Hermione gave him a shaky smile, and withdrew a little to sit beside him, keeping one of his hands in hers in a comforting gesture. Ron was looking at him with this slight awkward, solemn face that he pulled when he was sick worried.

‘How are you doing mate?’ He asked.

To see Ron, to see Hermione… Harry felt a hard knot of warmth hatch in his chest and tentatively reach out to chase the cold. He gave a shaky breath, and he felt Hemione gently squeeze his hand.

‘Honestly?’ He answered with a hard chuckle, ‘Terrible. I feel like shit and it’s not even been that long.’ He pinched his eyes closed trying to rein in the crushing despair brought by this thought.

It had hardly been a couple weeks since his trial, and he already felt like a hollow husk most of the time. At first there had been a burning fire, a rage against the injustice of it all. Against his sentence, against being accused of killing Cedric. He was branded a murdered, called a liar, when Voldemort, was able to roam free. The cowardice of it all made him sick. Then, slowly, the everyday life of his imprisonment had worn him down, every passing second like a drop of water on the furnace of his rage. In less than a week he’d already felt like the cold wetness of the prison had sunk in his bones, rotting him from the inside.

More than the bodies, Azkaban had a way to keep the minds of its inmates chained.

‘I don’t know how Padfoot has managed,’ he added with a bitter smile.

‘Well, it’s a dog’s life,’ Ron tried tentatively, before his face fell. ‘I am sorry, that was lame.’

‘Ronald!’ Hemione snapped, her face displaying her disbelieving shock.

An uncanny fit of laughter wormed himself out of Harry’s chest at the scene, with Ron’s terrible attempt at humour, his embarrassed face, and Hermione shocked reaction. It was too much for Harry to handle, with how much he had missed his two best friends. It seemed to lighten the atmosphere, Ron’s whole gangly frame seemed to sag in relief and a slight smile tugged the corner of Hermione’s lips. It was good to have them back. He almost felt… like he was getting a piece of himself back again.

‘We can’t give you the details,’ Hermione said in a hurried whisper, ‘we really can’t so please don’t ask, but we’ve seen him. Padfoot.’

‘Really?’ Harry answered, his attention perking up. 

‘He’s doing fine, comparatively to the last time you two’ve seen each other. He’s gone bonkers at the idea you have been stuck here of course.’ Ron added. Then, under Hermione weary gaze he continued, picking his words carefully so as not to let sensitive information slip. ‘Active measures have been taken so that he doesn’t get himself in anything bad, but he is very… concerned.’ Ron finished lamely. ‘Thought you would like to know.’

Of course. If someone were not holding him back, Harry was sure Sirius would have rushed with the singled-out idea to tear apart every single stone of the rotten place to take his godson back. He trusted him to have this kind of feeling, and he felt better to know that out there, they were people that were believing him. Even if said people were ex-convinced and infamous Azkaban escapee. A man got to know when to take what he is handled.

‘At least, you are rather further up from the pit than he was,’ Hermione added with a slight shiver, gazing out the narrow overture that passed as a window. 

‘Courtesy of a magnanimous court,’ Harry answered sarcastically.

On behalf of Harry being a minor, the court had acted he would not be assigned a cell in the section of the fortress normally dedicated to murderers, but further up, where petty criminals were held. Somehow, he felt this was less a consequence of him being a minor than to quell protests among an admittedly confused wizard population, to whom the government had just disgraced their worshiped _hero_. The higher the cells, the farther from the pit. Supposedly this meant less exposure to dementors. Harry was not so sure about this theory and was mighty glad auror Tonks had taken upon herself to sneak him as many chocolate bars as she could manage. She also liked to strike conversations with him on her patrols, which presented the advantage of keeping her patronus in range of Harry. From a couple thing she’d said, Harry supposed she was on Dumbledore side, and had been asked to look after him. Thinking about Dumbledore, Harry felt his heart drop in his stomach.

‘If you’ve seen Padfoot… You wouldn’t have come across Dumbledore by any chance?’ Harry inquired bitterly.

Ron and Hemione exchanged a heavy glance.

‘Not much. He comes and go, always in a hurry.’ Hermione muttered.

‘And we are not let into anything. Apparently, we are ‘too young’.’ Ron added dejectedly. ‘So, we have no idea what he is up to mate.’

‘It’s just…’ Harry felt a heavy bob in his throat, ‘I just would have expected to have seen him by now.’ He finished, a vice like feeling of abandonment closing on him.

Hermione squeezed his shoulder.

‘Harry, whatever he is doing, I am sure it is to find the proof that are necessary to bring you out of here. In the meantime, me and Ron are researching law texts to appeal your sentence,’ she finished with a very Hermione-ish resolve to her voice.

‘It’s Buckbeak again mate, you got no idea,’ Ron added with a small, comforting smile toward his friend.

* * *

The first months of his imprisonment oscillated between the cold and harsh reality of Azkaban, and the bright and comforting visits, that cut through the black mists of the fortress like powerful and warm beacons of light. It felt like night and day. Where the night would be closer to the pitch black of a bottomless hole filled with maggots and corpses than your moonless darkness.

Of course, Ron and Hemione were those that visited him the most, updating him dutifully on their research, but Mr and Mrs Weasley did too. Even Professor McGonagall. It had been an unexpected sight to have the usually solemn and uptight professor break in a terrible rage against the wizarding word at large.

‘I swear Mr Potter, I will find a way to get you out of this cell if it’s the last thing I do!’ She had promised on her way out, hugging him in a fierce and unexpected way

But when they were gone, the prison reclaimed him from his brief respite. 

* * *

The lack of distraction was the worse. Being stationed this high up, and close to the auror quarters meant the worse of the dementors was kept at bay. He would know. It was more of a constant drain as they fed on him through the edges of the protective wards that surrounded the aurors, sapping him slowly of his magic. It was different from the direct horror of being the intimate focus of one of them, less personal. It was like losing yourself to the ticking of the clock.

He had taken to spend his waking hours in an uneasy drowse, slipping in and out of eery dreams where he could feel himself coil and crawl. It was weird, felt unnatural. The dreams always left him clammy with sweat and yearning… for something he could not quite identify. They provided a form of freedom though, an escape from the claustrophobic dread of his cell.

A rational part of him wanted to protest it was not healthy to shut himself up in a dreamscape, that he ought to fight to keep his sanity. Be strong as Sirius had been.

But he was just. So. Tired.

* * *

Harry’s heart felt heavy. Today, Ron and Hermione had been oddly solemn, their conversation slightly uneasy. Like they were skirting and avoiding some issue. Harry sensed they were about to drop some kind of bad news on him, and that none wanted to deliver it. Honestly, Hermione looked like she was on the verge of tears from the moment she had come in.

‘Ok, something is bothering you guys. I can tell. So why don’t you get it off your chests so we can miserable together?’ Harry attempted to joke lightly.

‘Oh Harry,’ Hermione hiccupped, her eyes welling up with tears, ‘Harry…’ she continued, seemingly unable to finish her sentence.

‘It’s just, today is the 29th of August mate.’ Ron added dejectedly.

Harry took a while to process the information, and a cold dread crept up his limbs as realisation dawned.

‘You are going back to Hogwarts,’ he said, dazed. ‘That’s the last time I’ll see you before… Before…’

‘We’ll be there for Halloween Harry,’ Hermione interjected, ‘for sure. Sooner if we find a way, but Dumbledore he said… He said that…’

‘That students were not allowed out of campus on weekends, and that making an exception for the two of us would only disparage the cause.’ Ron finished, with a grim and terrible look.

The words sank like so many knives. Dumbledore that had not defended him at the hearing. Dumbledore that had not visited him even once since he’d been thrown in this hellhole. His mentor, the man he had looked up to. The man he would have fought for… The man that would not even move out of his way to let Harry have the sole comfort that was left for him to have. 

‘I am so sorry Harry,’ Hermione whispered.

A loud clanking sound resounded from outside the cell.

‘Wotcher kids!’ Tonks called out. ‘I am sorry to say, but visiting time is over, I need to see you out and through the check-up…’

Hermione gave him a distraught look, and Harry shook his head in response to console her, even managing a strained smile.

‘You go Ron, Hermione.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll be fine.’

* * *

He wasn’t. Fine that is. With his two friends gone, his regular anchoring touch down with reality was taken from him. His lucid moments were tortured by the realisation the world on the outside would be, was moving on, while he was stuck here. Ron and Hermione, and all his classmates, would keep on studying, passing exams, graduate while he would waste away as a Dementor feeder. The acute anxiety he derived from his lucid states made him take refuge in the drowsy half sleep that came up so naturally in Azkaban when you were not the direct concern of a passing dementor. It was a natural consequence of your mind shutting up the bleak horrors of reality.

Days, and weeks passed.

And he dreamt.

At one point, it struck him, he was a snake. And from this moment it felt like a mist was lifted from his perception. Everything felt so vibrant when he crawled about, so exhilarating. He could taste smells and _hunt_. Sometimes, there were words whispered to him, and a warm hand patting the smoothness of his scales.

_His master._

The dreams always left him only a fuzzy memory when he woke up, drenched in sweat and twitching, his scare prickling uncomfortably.

The wheel of fate gave a last wobble before stilling for good. 

* * *

Auror Fairweather rounded the last corner on her patrol, her mind firmly set on the prospect of an imminent cup of warm tea that would greet her once she was finished. The night had been calm, the weather giving a rare respite to the usually wind and rain battered fortress. She was honestly glad to be leaving the accursed place in a couple days. Azkaban was built to drive a man made.

When she heard a whimper from the only occupied cell on the level, she gave a sigh and moved toward it. That was the thing see, she had become an auror to keep the peace and help people. Not to stand guard at the door when kids were being tortured.

‘All right Potter?’ She called softly, walking up the length of the shadowy corridor.

The sound that answered her had her blood run cold. An inhuman hiss was coming from the child’s cell. Frowning, she tightened her hand on her wand, and proceeded the last meters with caution. She peeked in the cell.

‘What the bloody hell…’ She murmured.

The young boy was laying on his cot and contorting his body impossibly, arching his back to the breaking point of his spin, before falling again in a hapless twitching form. The sibilant hisses were seemingly coming from him, his head thrown back with his throat feverishly exposed.

The blonde auror unlocked the door and moved to the dark-haired boy. He was covered in sweat and a hand to his forehead confirmed he was burning up. She turned to her patonus.

‘Go fetch help, something’s wrong with Potter.’

As the message got sent in a disappearing mist of silver, she turned to Potter. She pocketed her wand, took each of his shoulder in one hand and shook him gently.

When he would not wake up and continued trashing, she shook him harder.

* * *

Slithering through high and wet grass, following the enticing scent of his prey, he felt a wild kind of pleasure take hold of him. He relished the movements of his heavy and powerful body coiling around obstacles and moving on after the skittish thing. The air tasted like moist earth and grass and he loved it.

When something nudged him.

_‘Who daresss.’_ He spat angrily.

But suddenly, he was not coiled on a bed of smooth, wet grass but on cold hard stone. And someone was attacking him.

Fuelled by anger he sprung and struck, and twice his fangs plunged in the neck of his attacker. He gave an angry hiss as blood gushed from the wound and he could taste his victory. Satisfied, he coiled back on himself and watched as the creature twitched in agony with a pleased hiss.

He blinked.

Two vacant, dead eyes were looking into his.

Pure terror took hold of him, and he screamed like he would never stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This gets pretty bleak from here. Beware.


	3. Back to the pit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kind words of support and interest. Looks like this is getting longer than expected. Enjoy!

Despite Albus long and extensive experience dealing with disasters, the matter of Harry Potter still felt like a heavy and guilty defeat to him. He had always suspected magic as dark as had been performed on the boy, first at a young age and then again at the end of the summer, would sooner or later reveal unforeseen and certainly dire consequences. An educated guess, from Harry’s uncanny parseltongue proficiency, as well as from the tale of his nightmares that he had gathered from his two friends, had allowed him to infer some sort of connection between Harry and Voldemort. He had concluded this matter required the highest caution and prudence, and that Harry being securely held in Azkaban in the meantime would give him time to think and act for the best. The reports from auror Tonks spoke of Harry taking his captivity with resilience for one so young, and he had believed this would be for the best.

How wrong he had been.

With a heavy and grim heart, he pushed the door of his office, hoping for a couple quiet hours of reflection before the inevitable chaos that would ensue from the morning paper delivery.

On a chair by the fire, her dressing grown wrapped tightly around her, was waiting a very distraught looking Professor McGonagall.

‘Albus,’ she muttered, getting quickly on her feet at the sight of the bleak Headmaster.

‘Minerva,’ he greeted her.

She watched him slowly shedding his travelling outer robes and take his seat behind his desk. Or rather slump in there, displaying a weariness that made him look very much his old age.

‘You were gone so suddenly. I didn’t know what to think. I feared…’

‘Something very grave has happened tonight, Minerva. Something that is besides my power to change and besides my reach to influence.’

* * *

The chimney spluttered, the flames turning from the smouldering red of glowering ambers to a deep shade of green. Nagini hissed her displeasure and moved languidly from her spot at the feet of her master where she had been pleasantly dozing in the warmth to wrap herself around his shoulders. He distractedly passed his hand on her nose and scales in a soothing motion.

He had asked her to stay close after she’d come to him a few hours prior with a most disturbing tale. About some human daring to attack her, about being moved out of the manor. The tracking charm he kept on her told him no such thing, and was remaining unbroken.

‘Avery,’ he whispered to the head that had suddenly appeared amongst the flames. ‘I hope your intrusion is justified.’

‘Master,’ the man answered shakily, bowing his nose into the ashes, ‘it’s about Potter. I… I managed to sneak an early print of the Prophet out of the office.’ The man stammered.

The head disappeared and was replaced by a hand, proffering the paper. With a raised brow at his follower rather unhelpful declaration -there was hardly a day where the Prophet was not talking of Potter one way or another-, he bend to pick up the paper that would flood the British Wizarding World in just a couple of hours. He could make Avery suffer for his discourtesy later if he judged necessary.

A glance to the cover and the man was forgiven.

* * *

‘Mr Weasley, Miss Granger. Have a cup of tea.’

A prefect had roused them up rather earlier than they would have, saying them McGonagall needed a world with them. That’s how the two Gryffindors found themselves in pyjamas, in their head of house office before breakfast was even due. Ron was obviously fighting dozing off, but Hermione was wide awake, a foreboding feeling twisting her guts.

‘Professor,’ she asked, ‘why are we here?’

‘Miss Granger,’ and the stern professor’s voice wavered, ‘I fear I am the bearer of a terrible new. I thought I would have you know before… Before the other students.’

* * *

All across Britain owls landed, held their leg to deliver the paper, received their nut, and took flight again.

* * *

_Mauling at the tower, the Boy-who-lived kills again!_

_My dear readers, it is with shock and revulsion that I take my quill to relate the events that have transpired in Azkaban just earlier tonight, involving no other than the recently turned infamous Harry James Potter and the late Miss C. Fairweather. Late, my dear reader, as in ‘deceased’ or more appropriately, murdered. Around one this morning, auror Fairweather was savagely mauled by inmate Harry Potter during her patrol, after he managed to trick her to step into his cell. You may remember how my previous interactions with the so called ‘Boy-who-lived’ had given me insight on how disturbed and dangerous the teenager was, but even I have to admit being shocked behind words by the fatal wounds he inflicted on the young and pretty auror. I won’t get into gruesome details for the sake of our young readership. In short terms, her throat has been ripped off. Evidence show the teen has used his teeth, in several bites, to manage this atrocious wound. Now, auror Fairweather was engage and due to marry on the … [see page 6]._

_By Rita Skeeter_

* * *

‘Well, well. How… unexpected.’ Voldemort let the paper down and caressed his beloved snake, prodding it gently out of her sleep. ‘ _Nagini_ ,’ he hissed softly. ‘ _Nagini, precious. I need you to recount me your little adventure once more. In details._ ’

It would seem the puzzle was a little more complicated than he would have thought.

His plan had been simple. Kill the figureheads, Potter and Dumbledore, as swiftly as possible, and use the ensuring chaos to rise once more. Of course, he had expected _resistance_ to meet him at some point, and the complexity laid in the details. But the Ministry was so rip for the taking it was ridiculous, crumbling from the inside already. The light side was weak, their figurehead branded a liar and distrusted and their hero disgraced. It was just a matter for him to gather his forces and play his pieces right.

But suddenly, it looked like Potter didn’t care to fit anymore. He was a jagged, broken piece that would look different depending on the angle he looked at it.

How fascinating.

* * *

Both Gryffindors had turned a sick ashen colour.

‘Surely, that can’t be true professor.’ Hermione managed to voice through her shock. ‘Harry never would do that. Harry never would… kill someone.’ Her eyes tuned hard as they fell on the paper again. ‘This Skeeter woman is a hag! She is lying! This must be a ploy from the Ministry to discredit Harry further!’

‘Miss Granger,’ McGonagall answered, her knuckles turning white from the strength with which she held her untouched cup of tea, ‘I am sorry to say that, according to professor Dumbledore, the evidences leave no doubt as to what has happened. You see,’ she continued, her voice cracking, ‘auror cast a charm on themselves while on duty, that allows to see what has happened to them if they came to be disabled or… killed.’

‘That’s bullshit,’ Ron blurted fiercely, ‘there must have missed something. Has Dumbledore talked to Harry?’

‘No, Mr Weasley, he has not…’

Ron fury bursted and he sprung to his feet, pointing an accusing finger toward his professor.

‘There! Something is wrong! You know Harry has been waiting for him? For weeks, since the trial? What has he been doing for Harry since he got thrown in this hellhole? What is Dumbledore DOING to get him out, professor??’

‘I am sure,’ she answered with tight lips, despite a glint of uncertainty in her eyes, ‘that Professor Dumbledore has been doing everything that was in his power to get Mr Potter out of Azkaban.’ She gave a slight pause, bracing herself. ‘He has not seen Mr Potter this night, because nobody is allowed to visit Mr Potter anymore. He has been relocated, on order of the Minister, in a high security cell.’

Hermione yelped, slapping a hand across her mouth in horror. Ron blanched.

‘Even Professor Dumbledore was not allowed to see him,’ McGonagall finished grimly.

* * *

‘Well, well, well.’ A lilting, feminine voice cackled. ‘What is it we have here now??’ She sing-songed excitedly.

‘… I can’t quite believe it. Looks like little Barty has been telling the truth?’ A raspy, coughing voice answered from another’s cell shadow.

‘SILENCE!’ A high strung auror shouted at random. ‘And you, get in there.’

The teen was pushed in an empty cell with so much force he was thrown to the floor and his head met the grim stone with a crack. He didn’t scream then.

But when the end tail of the aurors patronii faded and the dementors gathered hungrily around their prize, then he did. He did until his throat was raw, until his voice was broken.

He did until a new, hungry blackness wrapped avidly around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a cookie kind of persone. If you leave me a comment, I am happy and fulfilled. With eternal love and dedication, UA.


	4. Whispers in the dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically, Harry's vision of life follow the colour chart of the HP movies.

To the untrained eyes of the terrified convict, or equally terrified passing visitor, Azkaban stands as a bleak and unforgiving monolith of death and terror. This, while being quite true, remains woefully sparse. A philanthropist dark wizard would be delighted to discuss the rich and specialised fauna and flora thriving on the ten foot worth of bare, hard rock sprawling from the foot of the tower to the sea that technically speaking, could be referred as ‘Azkaban island’. It consists mostly in dark mosses, dark fungus, and dark birds (the dark side refutes the existence of dark molluscs).

A vast colony of Augurey had taken to nest in the crooks of the tall walls, crowing in their mournful way at all hours. Most interesting, among all the washed-up refuses of the magical world that ended up thriving on Azkaban island of all places, was a discreet specie of small, black snakes. This is where you fetch your closest dark wizard philanthropist, for these little beauties are not your everyday magical snake. These inconspicuous inhabitants are, in fact, mardröm, and through extinct by the magical world at large for now a few hundreds of years. The sneaky little devils had found in Azkaban a heaven of sort, feed on the occasional auspicious egg, and the nightmares of men. The little colony lived peaceful and undisturbed under the jagged, sea-weathered black stones as the only philanthropist black wizard that walked the area were never given a real chance at exploring before being locked up for their sins -aka curiosity-.

Now, one such madröm was currently making his skilful way toward a poorly positioned Augurey nest, where promise of dinner lay in wait. The birds usually nested high enough to discourage the adventurous little snakes, but this one was close to the base of the tower, in the crook of a light pit. Light pits were handy to madröm, for they led directly inside the towers to the humans, were they could discreetly slither to nibble on their tormented sleep. As he slithered closer to the nest, and therefore the opening, a sibilant whimper caught his attention.

He tasted the air curiously, and his dinner briefly forgotten, followed the strange whisper.

* * *

Harry was not spiralling into madness. Spiralling refers to a somewhat fast, but gradual slip of control.

Nothing had been remotely _gradual_ about Harry’s current state.

The cold, dead eyes he had woken up to had looked like Cedric’s, unseeing and unforgiving. Their stillness was seared onto his retina, and wherever he looked there was the vacant and accusatory cadaver. In shock, he had been in shock. Nothing made sense. He’d been restrained, manhandled. People had come and gone.

Everything had been muted and toned down, like his head was underwater.

He’d been thrown in a pitch-black cell.

A flicker of survival instinct had registered cold closing up on him as the tell-tale glow of a patronus walked away from him, leaving him to the mercy of Azkaban. A shot of adrenaline had blazed his brain to wakefulness.

There were cackles and jeers, the cell he had been thrown in was matted with salted grim.

The sea sounded much, much closer.

Long, desiccated arms reached through the cell’s bars, grabbing for his neck, for his cloths in a hungry, desperate manner. He flung himself backwards, crawling out of reach, until his back collided with the tower’s wall.

But the ever-hungry maws of the pit did not need to touch him to feed on him.

And Harry had been offered to them.

* * *

With every new cry and sob that was wrenched from his withering soul, he could feel the raw texture of his throat, and taste blood on his tong.

He could hear an echo of himself, resounding against the sea.

But he could not, find himself.

The scenes in front of his eyes kept changing, whirling like shredded clothes in the building winds of an oncoming storm. Cedric dying, his mother dying … Sirius… did Sirius die? He could not remember, could not remember if he failed Sirius like he failed Cedric like he failed Ginny … Ginny, cold on the Chamber’s floor, so pale. He failed to grasp the fraying edges of his memories like water between his fingers. He wanted to act, to move his unresponsive limbs and fight, but every time the scene would unfold in its uncanny horror and he would be powerless to help it. He was feeling cold. Every trickling second carving out another piece of him, hollowing him in the semblance of the dark shadows that swept the corner of his vision. He wanted to let go, to let himself be consumed and stop his pointless struggle.

On the edge of his mind, he could almost guess colour, something reaching out from his soul to remind him why at some point, fighting to stay alive had been important. But every time he tried to glance at the shimmering and elusive feeling, it was overwhelmed and drowned, twisted and driven back into him like a vile, crooked knife.

Sometimes it felt like his mind blacked out, and then the nightmares would shift.

He would slither and crawl on smooth black stone, heading with a determined purpose. In those occasion Harry would gratefully coil in the simple recess of this foreign determination, letting himself be carried.

Grateful for the respite.

Rarely, he would witness other scenes. Shifting, muddles environments. People coming and going. He felt very little concern, for he knew he was protected. He was precious and cherished and no one would dare raise a hand against his master’s favoured companion.

* * *

‘Does he _ever_ shut up?’ A gruffy voice spat from the recess of one cell.

The boy had been screaming for hours, going on in a raw, guttural fashion even after his voice had broken. And now that he had at least stopped, a restless, rasp murmuring was coming from his cell. It broke the quiet, muffled blanket of anguish that had wrapped around the resident death eaters for years, disturbed only by the occasional sob or whimper or quiet whispered conversation. Or the occasional auror round, looking to see wherever one of them had decided to give yet and die.

Crouch Jr. had provided quite the excitement when he’d been thrown back in his old cell, a few months ago. The jeers and taunt of the others at being caught a second time had been quickly subjugated by his tale of their Lord resurrection. And of Potter’s fate. It had raised an ugly hope in the heart of the Dark Lord’s ten most faithful, and set a fire burning in the old festering amber of their devotion.

And then Potter had been thrown down the pit.

The wizarding word saviour, the vanquisher of the Dark Lord, the Boy-who-lived.

Little Barty had been telling the truth. Their collective heart soared and began to crave. Their master would come for them soon. Soon, they would be free again. Their magic would be unleashed at last, and the wizarding world would pay for their sufferings.

‘No, he doesn’t.’ Barty murmured in answer. He didn’t know what grated on his nerves more, the yelling of the child, or the cackling from Bellatrix that would join him at his worse.

‘You would know, right?’ Another, rich voice called. Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange were in the two cells that faced his own, and were looking at him with their back to each other, split only by a length of wall.

He nodded. Resisting cursing the boy to death on an impulse every time he opened his mouth had been a real trial during his time as Moody. But his master had needed him. And the payoff had been worth every one of his petty frustrations.

‘You have no idea how I would have liked to tear those screams out of him back there…’ He murmured.

‘Shut up, Barty.’ A voice snapped like a whip, attentive. The sharp order had come from his left, from the cell occupied by Avery. The Lestrange brothers peeked curiously, and Crouch could only observe them to try and get an idea of what was happening.

‘What is it?’ Rodolphus asked gruffly.

There was a pregnant, attentive pause, the silence only broken by the echoes of the ever-blowing winds battering the fortress, and the sibilant whispering slithering from Harry’s cell.

Rabastan eyes widened slightly in disbelief.

‘You don’t think… This sounds like…’

A shriek echoed from Bellatrix’s cell.

‘Filthy scum!’ She called from the far end of the corridor, ‘how dare he! Unworthy little bastard imitating…’

‘Bellatrix SHUT UP!’ Avery bellowed, his voice rasp from disuse.

The mad woman descended into a fit a giggle, the sudden excitement distracting her momently from the object of her ire. She started humming softly, dragging herself closer to the bars to get a better view of the action.

‘If this isn’t parseltongue...’ Avery stated after a short, attentive pause, ‘then it’s a disturbingly fine imitation.’

‘There was a rumour,’ Barty answered his face pressed to the bars, ‘in Hogwarts, that Potter could commend snake. But all I could get was incoherent babbling of how he’d set a snake on another student.’

‘He can’t be a parseltongue. Our Master is the last of Slytherin’s line. The Potter never came close to be mixed to Slytherin’s line and his mother was a mudblood.’ Rodolphus commented.

‘Or perhaps,’ a thoughtful voice answered from the cell facing Harry’s, ‘there is something more complicated than blood at play here.’

‘What do you mean, Rookwood?’ Avery asked.

Avery had always respected Rookwood. The man was intelligent, enough to be made an Unspeakable. And shrewd enough to deceive and spy on them for their Lord. He would have stayed in position if Karkaroff had not ratted him to the ministry.

His insight was usually sharp.

‘I don’t know. Yet.’ The man answered thoughtfully. ‘But we’d better keep a close eye on Mr Potter here. He could prove… Valuable.’

* * *

The little mardröm felt inexplicably fond of his new human. He was younger than the other humans, and his nightmares tasted delicious. Knowing he would grow powerful on them, and the snakes coiled contentedly in the warmth of the dazed boy.

At some point the blank eyes of the human had fell on him, and a shaking hand had moved to pet his smooth body. A weak, lulling hiss had passed the speaker’s lips. Soot had decided he liked this human and had started to whisper sweet nonsenses back to him. To comfort the little human.

He had been basking in his human nightmares and warmth when a harsh clanking sound of metal echoed in the bowel of the fortress. Heavy boots hit the silent stones, coming closer. Soot hissed angrily as a harsh, corrosive light washed upon the cell and he hid quickly in the darkness of his human.

The cell door was thrown open.

‘Oh my god Harry…’

* * *

Tonks could not quite believe the state she found Harry Potter in. It had been a couple weeks already that he had been affected to a high security cell. Of course, she had known he would look terrible, but it was by far worse than she would have expected. His eyes were sunken and unseeing. He looked terribly thin, like he had not taken a bit since he had been thrown down there. Which must be the case, since his rations of chocolate were piled by the door, untouched.

He was awake, but he had not even reacted to the warm glow of the patronus.

She moved to touch his shoulder, to give him a comforting gesture. To promise it was going to be okay, that they were working on having him out of here…

There was a tapping noise coming from behind her.

‘Auror Tonks.’ A strict, harsh voice pronounced carefully. ‘You have no right to patrol down the pit.’

The voice belonged to a young, but already greying auror with sharp, hard eyes.

‘I was looking for auror…’ She started, before stammering, trying furiously to remember who was supposedly on pit duty. The man gave her a disgusted look.

‘Get out of my sight,’ he said in a grim fashion. As she hesitated, he snapped ‘Right. Now. Before I change my mind about filling the paperwork to report your slip.’ 

She let Harry sprawled on the floor of his cell and swept past the man. If she got reported, she would be removed from Azkaban. They could not afford it. It stung her heart to leave the kid behind in such a state, but there was no other way.

Dumbledore needed to be told.

* * *

He had thought Tonks behaviour suspicious from the beginning. He had kept a sharp eye on her since That Day. The thought was enough to have his patronus flicker, and he took a deep breath. He had not intended to go down there for a few more days…

‘Look at you, a murderer, a filth,’ the auror spat, toeing the face of the teenager with the tip of his boot with a disgusted rictus, ‘and still people flounder to your feet. To your rescue.’ He spat on the boy’s face.

The absence of reaction flickered his rage.

He made to grab the boy by the neck, to pin him down without a clear agenda, but yelped and jumped backward as pain flared in his hand.

Two little beads of blood were welling, and a snake was hissing angrily, coiled around the teenager’s neck. Cursing, the man sent a stinging hex that sent the snake flying and roused the boy from his sluggish daze. He aimed at the snake once more.

‘Incendio!’ He cast.

‘No!’

The curse missed, and the snake took refuge behind the dark haired boy, who was know looking up to him with wide, frightful, and pleading eyes. He looked lost, _innocent_.

‘Please don’t hurt him, don’t hurt him.’ He rasped painfully, shaking hands raised in a pitiful plea.

The boy had no _right_ to look so _innocent_.

‘How dare you… You filthy little bastard.’ He sneered in rage.

**Not after what he’d done to her.**

He sneered, and deep down his magic knew how to provide relief to his pain. The word tasted almost sweets as they fell from his lips.

‘Crucio.’

And the sight of the withering form of his fiancé murderer was all the sweeter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's play a little game of 'how much worse can this realistically get'.  
> I take your guesses as to what is going to unfold from this :p  
> As always, your comments are my little patronii, or whispers in the dark. Be my mardröm, and keep me company in my nightmare.


	5. Blazed secrets

Harry veins and blood caught fire and he _screamed_. For it to stop. For help. For anyone to help.

He trashed and twisted, his nails catching his skin, his face and drawing lines of blood.

Help me.

_Please._

* * *

Lord Voldemort gazed into the dying fire. The quietness of his study a sanctuary of his mind.

The texts he’d been perusing held no answers to his confusion. Neither the Malfoy library, nor any other of his servant’s seemed to contain any more information than he had already gathered before undertaking the ritual.

Magic was a fickle thing, mostly experienced rather than discovered. Secrets were often jealously guarded before getting lost to time.

He understood the need. It was just.

Frustrating.

Nagini shifted from her coiled knot. Hissing slightly in confusion. He moved a soothing hand toward the reptile, ready to inquire about the source of her discomfort, when he felt it.

It was like a window at the back of his mind had been blown open, curtains flapping widely in the wind of an incoming storm. It felt like a lifeline trashing loose.

The Dark Lord closed his eyes, focusing his attention on the deep recess of his mind and their shifting shadows.

It appeared the pooling darkness has concealed much deeper abysses than he’d thought.

_‘Please…’_ the whispered echo pleaded again and again, reaching out to him. Coiling around him in desperation. In need.

And he grabbed onto it.

* * *

A searing pain from his forearm diverted Rookwood’s attention from the Potter boy’s torture. Gasping, he caught onto the dirty rag that passed as his sleeve and yanked it up to reveal The Mark.

It was a deep inky black, fresh as the day his master had seared it into his flesh. He caressed the shape with a shaking thumb, before hungrily turning his eyes back to the scene in front of him.

Just in time to see the Auror crashing out of Potter’s cell.

‘Accidental Magic, eh Potter?’ The man sneer, getting up from the floor. ‘Azkaban’s not yet got to you in earnest? No matter, it shall soon enough.’

The burning was already fading from Rookwood’s wrist, and he pressed his hand to it as to keep the burning from slipping away.

The auror raised his wand again, fuelled by rage.

‘Cruc…’

‘No!’ Another voice shouted, and a stunner hit Potter’s attacker in the back.

Another auror stepped onto the scene, looking flabbergasted and shocked. Rookwood thought he recognised the man. He belonged to the few that were affected in a permanent fashion to the fortress. A position that generally meant they had performed rather poorly in the line of duty.

The old unspeakable’s gears slowly started to turn, after years of disuse.

The Potter boy was important. From what he could piece together, he was likely to become a precious asset if he played his cards right. Which for now, meant keeping him alive.

Until he could be presented to their master.

* * *

Auror Cleave dashed toward the sobbing, wrecked form of the young prisoner and turned him around.

‘Oh Merlin,’ he gasped, taking in the bone-thinness of the teenager, the clotted blood and the rasped breathing. ‘Merlin, oh Merlin what am I to do.’ He moaned.

He’d thought being posted in Azkaban had been hitting the bottom of his career barrel, but he could now perceive a whole new range of disgrace available to him. Harry Potter was branded infamous by the Ministry, but he was still a hot political and public point. If it went out an auror had assaulted him…

A dark, low chuckle sounded from behind him.

‘Well, well, well. What an interesting time to be a guest of Azkaban.’

Cleaver turned to look which of the prisoners was talking.

‘Shut up Rookwood. I am not in the mood for one of your games.’ He spat.

‘No, I can see you aren’t. Much too busy thinking about the backlash of Potter’s death.’ The low voice of the Death Eater rasped.

‘The boy aren’t dead.’ He retorted.

‘Oh. He isn’t. Yet.’

An eery quiet fell over the corridor, as every inmate that still had the mind stilled to listen in on the conversation. Rookwood moved from the shadows of his cell to seat by the bars, looking nonchalantly at the auror and the boy cradled in his arms.

‘Look at him,’ he croaked, ‘he doesn’t eat. Hardly sleeps. It was only a matter of days before he died. And your friend here helped.’ His dark sunken eyes looked into the auror quivering ones. ‘What do you think will happed when he dies? Hum?’

Cleaver swallowed, his eyes darting from the boy, to his colleague still unconscious form. Potter was too important for his death not to be noticed. There would be an investigation. And magic as black as Collins’ had just casted would be picked upon for sure.

It would turn into an enormous scandal, one he was sure he would be caught up into. If the boy could only survive a little longer…

‘What can I do…’ He whispered.

Rookwood cleared his throat and drummed his fingers idly on the grim covered stone, drawing patterns. Linking lines.

‘He would do better if he had someone to watch over him. Force him to eat and take his chocolate rations. He is wasting away because he lacks an anchor. The dementors are affecting him too much.’ He added idly, as an afterthought.

Cleaver barked a laugh at the incongruous idea, that Rookwood was suggesting. He was going to retort he would be a fool to place Harry in a cell with one of them, but the jolt had gotten the boy out of his stupor.

The next moment Potter was sobbing wracked, clutching his forehead and rolling out of his arms. His hands were clawing at his scar that blazed red with blood against the unnatural blueish whiteness of his skin. He screamed, his eyes seemingly wide and unseeing, his pupil blown.

He looked like a wraith and suddenly Cleaver found himself not quite eager to think longer on the situation.

Behind his back Rookwood smiled.

‘Think about it. Even if you got caught, you could pass it off as a blunder. Saying you thought it was for the best. Nobody can really reproach you to do your job? Sharing cell is common practice on the upper levels, to help the prisoners cop. You would just be applying protocol.’

‘Just applying protocol…’ The auror repeated, entranced by the sight of the wasted teenager.

It looked like the boy had spent his outburst, and was now limping against a wall, like a stringless puppet. He approached cautiously.

‘We are going to put you with someone else, Potter. Don’t try anything funny.’

He raised him and half walked, half dragged the doll like boy out. Cleaver’s eyes immediately found Rookwood’s. Who was smiling a wretched smile, that twisted his guts.

‘Potter will be choosing whom he’ll join,’ he stated immediately, anticipating Rookwood demand the boy be placed with him. He had no idea what the man’s game was, but he jolly well wouldn’t be playing it to a tee.

‘Kid,’ he shook Potter gently, ‘kid, with whom do you want to go? You need to pick a cellmate.’

There was a cackle that busted from behind them, delighted and gleeful. It froze Cleaver’s blood, but seemed to draw the kid’s attention from the folded recess of his mind. He perked up skittishly from behind the auror, looking for the origin of the noise.

Bellatrix Lestrange cooed, delighted in the attention.

‘Hellllooo little one. Aren’t you the cutest!’ She called, pressing her face to the bars and passing her bone thin arms through, beckoning.

‘Bellatrix…’ Rookwood growled in warning.

But it was too late. Harry’s attention had been caught and he was slowly moving forward, or rather, limping, toward the woman.

‘That’s it, don’t be afraid. Aunt Bella will take care of you. Wouldn’t Sirius be proud that his cousin takes care of his beloved godson? Hum?’ She hummed.

Sirius… Sirius… Harry loved this man, he could remember he did. And something in the deep, sunken dark eyes of the woman was familiar.

He brought a shaking hand closer, and touched tentatively her extended fingertips.

Bellatrix’s eyes widened when they touched, and she laughed some more in manic delight. She brough Harry closer and hugged him through the bars, moving her fingers to comb his hair like he was the most precious thing in the world.

Sick to the stomach, Cleaver was starting to rethink his decision.

He sighed.

‘Bellatrix Lestrange. You will take a vow not to harm Harry James Potter.’

She looked up from her kneeled position, a manic light dancing in her eyes. She let go of the boy to help herself up, dragging her frame painstakingly with the help of the bars. The kid whimpered at the loss and started shivering.

She pressed her face to the bars, to be as close to the auror’s face as possible, and seethed:

‘I swear on my magic, not to purposefully and wilfully hurt Harry James Potter so long as he remains in my care within the boundaries of this cell.’

She gave him the most disturbing smile, as magic whipped around to seal their fate.

‘So mote it be.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, having company ought to clear Harry's mind a little.


	6. When gazing into the abyss…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EEerrrmm... Merry Christmas?

‘Sirius!’ Lupin yelled, before tackling him to the ground and away from the open window.

‘Remus! Let. Go. Of me!’ The irate man responded, trying to break free of his friend’s grip.

‘Sirius, this is madness! You can’t go! They’ll take you right back in!’

‘You’ve heard Tonks, Remus. Harry is dying in this hell hole. I should never have trusted Dumbledore,’ he spat, ‘he’s abandoned Harry. He’s left him to rot in this cursed place. **_I_** let him rot in this place.’ He finished, his voice breaking, and his body falling limp.

‘No. No Sirius, how can you say that.’ Remus denied firmly. ‘You can’t take the blame for any of this.’ He tried to squeeze some comfort into his friend, but the festering crack of Harry’s situation was running deep under both their skins.

He was the sensible one, he’d always been. It lay on him to keep his head despite the horror of the situation and keep Sirius from breaking. Or doing something rash.

‘Escaping Azkaban was a stroke of luck Sirius. If you set a foot back there, they will lock you right back in. You probably won’t even catch a glimpse of him, and the Order would have to find a way to get both of you out…’ He finished, griping Sirius forearms to try and have him look into his eyes.

‘I… Remus, I just feel like I can’t live with myself if I don’t even try. It’s awful there.’ Sirius added, shivering. ‘It eats you ups like ants cleaning a bone. To think Harry is between those stones, with those people. Voldemort’s people. Our Harry, locked up with those murdering psychos…’

‘I know, Sirius. I know. But think about it. Harry has sacrificed so much so that you’d be free. It would break him if he knew you’d been caught again. He cares about you. Deeply.’ Lupin tried to reason.

Sirius gave him a dark look.

‘Pray that by the end of it, he even remembers who we are. Or who he is.’ He answered ominously. 

* * *

‘Harry…’ Bellatrix cooed, **‘** Harryyyy! You need to eat now. Chocolate helps.’

A gentle, crooked hand helped his head up, and through the hazy daze of his half nightmare, he could feel a chunk being pressed to his lips. He took a bit and let himself fall back, heavy lidded.

‘Atta boy. One little piece at a time.’ The voice soothed, combing his hair.

He could feel the little snake coil around his neck reassuringly.

The cell did not feel so cold, and neither the dementors so close.

* * *

It was one of those dreams.

He moved against the cold, dark floor, his body a powerful knot of coiled energy. He had no doubt he would conduct his master’s bidding. Soon, soon his master would get the object of his desire.

The dark colours were vibrant to his eye, the flames of the sparse torches bathing the long corridor in scalding light. The air smelled of old dust and centuries…

A noise to his right had him coiling into a dark nook. The man passed him, unaware and alone. She wanted to strike, to feel the blood of this enemy pumping under her fangs… But he recoiled. He remembered, remembered.

Horror dawned on him, and confusion.

* * *

Harry’s breathing was laboured in his dream, but Bellatrix wouldn’t wake him up. She wouldn’t, because her beloved mark was so dark, so deliciously burning against her skin, so alive. She hummed a pleasant, soothing tune as the teen twisted and turned, combing his hair delicately and holding him so he wouldn’t hurt himself.

Harry was precious, a precious little boy she’d take care for, for her master. Until he came for them. And then he would see. He would see Harry was precious. She grinned widely.

Harry’s nightmare seemed to culminate, and he jolted awake, widely grasping onto her like a lifeline.

‘Huuusssh now little Harry. You’re with Aunt Bella, nothing will get to you. I’m taking care of you,’ she said, holding onto him and rocking him slightly.

Harry seemed to regain a moment of clarity, his eyes still a little lost.

‘It’s the same nightmare. Again, and again. I am crawling a dark, dark corridor and I am looking for something… Something he wants.’ He breathed out.

‘Who?’ She asked, a little breathless, hugging him a little closer, ‘who is looking for what, Harry?’

‘I…’ he looked into her wide, hopeful eyes and hated to disappoint her, ‘I don’t know,’ he breathed.

The little mardröm peeked from under his robes’ collar.

_‘Are you alright, young ss-speaker?’_ It asked, booping Harry’s nose in a show of concern.

Harry could feel the woman’s ravenous attention on their interaction, but his energy was already slipping away, and he couldn’t muster the energy to worry about it.

_‘I didn’t mean to jolt you. I am right, just a silly nightmare.’_ He finished, petting the snakes’ tiny head with a finger.

_‘No dreams-ss, speaker. No nightmare. I would know,’_ the little snake finished in a somewhat grumpy manner before coiling back on its favoured spot.

* * *

Voldemort drummed his fingers against the windowsill, feeling the growing cold of winter catching against his fingertips.

The situation was… tangled in the most inexplicable way. He had started to formulate a hypothesis, that he’d devolved a lot of energy to disprove, given the tremendous implications of it. But it seemed every passing day was set on proving him a fool for doing so.

And a right fool he’d be to ignore the facts any longer.

The connection, in dreams or in moment of need. When his mind was stretched to Nagini’s or when Potter was close to breaking. He’d even possessed the boy, for a few short seconds, as he was being tortured and his mind cried for relief.

It felt familiar to what he had with Nagini, but in a more broken and jagged shape.

The thought twisted his guts.

Harry Potter was one of his horcruxes. A bearer of one piece of his very soul.

The boy was, in a very profound way, his. A gift from Magic itself, bestowed upon him. And he’d learned bitterly on several occasion it never paid to disregard Magic.

Frost bit around his pressed fingers to the glass.

A faint noise signalled the arrival of his follower, and their kneeling.

‘Ah, Lucius.’ He started idly, watching the frost patterning the window in long, reaching curls. Curving and coiling, tangling into each other. ‘Recent information calls for a change of agenda.’

‘My Lord?’ Lucius called softly.

Voldemort turned toward the kneeled man who was watching him with a schooled and determined look.

‘Yes, my friend. Breaking into Azkaban is now our priority.’ He finished calmly.

He needed to get his hand on Potter. Everything ought to be made clear when he got the boy.

* * *

‘You need to take another chunk, Harry. You need to be strong for when our master comes.’ Bellatrix chirped with contented enthusiasm.

Harry took the proffered chunk with a bitter smile, not wanting to offend Bella’s mood but at the same time weary of her statement.

‘I am not sure your master would be too pleased to see me about and running.’ He murmured, biting into the salvatory chocolate.

He was still weak, but had overall recovered in spectacular strides, under Bella’s attentive care. She had nursed him back to the living, making sure he ate food and chocolate. Protecting him from the dementors.

Often when the shades passed their cell, she would cage his body with hers. Shielding him from their gaze and providing a thin, grounding warmth. Thanks to her presence, her lulling tunes and contact, it’d started to be easier to tell nightmare, daydream and reality apart.

She was always whispering dark promises that their master would come to get them out. That Harry only needed to be patient. To hang on a little more. It had been a sweet lullaby to Harry’s tired and muddled brain, and he had started to hang on to her words.

He had made her hopes his.

Only recently did the meaning of such hope properly sink in.

That the people he had been locked up with were Death Eaters. People who worshipped Voldemort and had committed horrendous atrocities in his name.

Those were the people the Wizarding world had seemed fit to lock him up along. The knowledge felt like a weight of lead tugging at his heart. Him, that tried to not bother about the slanders sowed by Skeeter during the Triwizard tournament suddenly couldn’t bear the idea to be thought so ill of by people he knew not. Being ridiculed was one thing, being thought a murderer another. It made his stomach twist thinking how Sirius must have felt all those years.

Sometimes he dreamt of being doused in blood, with a metallic taste upon his tong and flesh giving way under his jaws. But his mind seemed to always shut down upon the terror of it. He always woke up drenched in sweat and retching, unable and unwilling to consider the vivacity of the image.

‘He wants me dead,’ he finished softly.

The thought was not as unpleasant as it had been. He didn’t think he would mind a well placed Avada so much anymore. Bella seemed rather fond of him, perhaps she could convince Voldemort not to torture him too much before he finally would get rid of him.

If Voldemort was anything like he remembered from the graveyard, he doubted he would pass on the entertainment… But still, one could always hope.

She cooed his concern away, passing a soothing thumb over the reddened and raw edges of his scars. The not-dreams had redoubled in intensity, and more often than not, he would wake up to blood reddening his vision, as his scar kept bursting open. Bella swore it was not Harry clawing it in his sleep, that it happened on its own. That it looked beautiful against his pale skin.

Every moment, but even more so after each dream, it felt like something was pulling at the back of his head, stretching his mind. Like a rope he could not make the end of kept being tugged on by an invisible force. It frightened him. But he was loath to admit it fascinated him also. It felt like his scare, his curse, and Voldemort were all that was left to him. His friends, his schoolmates, Hogwarts, Sirius… Everything had been taken from him.

He was only Harry now, the cursed child. Nothing was left between himself and Voldemort, but a thin veil of nightmare. And it felt like this disgusting link they had, that twisted and intertwined their fates in chocking coils, defined him more with each passing day. That his self, his being was burned down to it.

Harry Potter. The boy-who-lived.

A charred amber, smouldering in the dark.

Ready to burn away and die. Ready to burst into flame again.

* * *

The same dream unfolded before his fluttering eyelids. The same, dark corridor. Harry wanted to push forward, a stirring curiosity and anticipation driving him restlessly.

Tonight. Tonight…

Displeasure crashed onto him. A man was in his way, blocking the path. Dozing. She wanted to strike, but she knew the need not to raise alarm, for her master plan required secrecy. She tried to pass him, quietly…

" _But the man was stirring... a silver Cloak fell from his legs as he jumped to his feet; and Harry saw his vibrant, blurred outline towering above him, saw a wand withdrawn from a belt... he had no choice... he reared high from the floor and struck once, twice, three times, plunging his fangs deeply into the man’s flesh, feeling his ribs splinter beneath his jaws, feeling the warm gush of blood... The man was yelling in pain... then he fell silent... he slumped backwards against the wall... blood was splattering on to the floor...._ "

Harry woke up, screaming his throat raw. Screaming and screaming again, clawing his arms and face, Bellatrix too far to restrain him.

‘HELP!’ He called into the corridor, half running, half crawling the short distance of his cell to fling himself against the bars. ‘HELP!’ He yelled, sobbing in despair.

He’d recognised the man in his dream. The red-haired man he had grown to love, in what felt like another life. Azkaban had stolen him like so many others, but he knew him.

‘Mr. Weasley as been attacked!’ He screamed, ‘he is dying,’ he sobbed, slowly slumping onto himself, exhaustion taking its toll. ’Please, someone. Help…’

But only the hollows echo of Azkaban answered his plea. Only the shifting shadows of the other cells, listened. And they listened hungrily, waiting in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, basically Harry doesn't remember killing Fairweather well, with his subconscious tying to erase the horror of the memory.  
> Bella loves Harry cause she can feels Voldi’s magic slipping through.  
> Shout out to all your nice comments, thank you so much!


	7. Take care they do not gaze back into you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a short epilogue after this chapter I think. I could have bunche dup but I really wanted this posted.  
> Perhaps I'll make a sequel, who knows.

Harry had finally collapsed into a grief induced slumber, after his pleas had turned from desperate yelling to rasp begging, to praying whispering. Before even those misted out, unheard, along the cold corridors of the fortress.

Bellatrix tucked around him the ragged blanket that someone had managed to give her ages ago in the beginning of her sentence. It had had colours. Now it was stone and dirt grey.

Shadows shifted and seemed to grow closer before morphing into ragged human shapes. They had kept quiet as the boy called, but now eyes of all sorts, sunken and dark, lost and sharp where hungrily taking his sunken shape.

There had been whispers, running from one cell to another, like a dark curse. The boy was special. Their master’s magic was running under his skin. And he saw things, very special things. Rookwood said, it seemed like the boy was dreaming of the Department of Mysteries.

And Rookwood had a fair idea of what their master was after. Men like Rookwood didn’t go insane in Azkaban, the Dementors only acting as a grinding stone to the blade of their mind. You see, most people fashion sanity as a two-end spectrum thingy, when it is rather more of an anulus. Rookwood was, by too far, a sane man. With a sharp mind.

Voldemort was after the prophesy. Which meant that Potter, even shackled down, remained a source of either concern of fascination to him.

* * *

Harry’s nightmares took a turn for the worse after the incident with Mr. Weasley. At first, he tried to hang on to the hope that he had not witnessed an actual death and that perhaps, someone had made it in time. But the Dementors soon siphoned his hope, and all he was left with were festering regrets and _guilt._

He had been the snake.

He had _struck._

In his dreams, he was bathed in blood, the sticky, tangy substance covering his face and his hands, soaked his clothes. His mouth felt to big, as if he could swallow the world. Sometimes the mangled body would be Mr. Weasley’s, sometimes it would be a fair woman. After a few nights, the quality of the dream twisted and the corps started to be Ron, Hermione… his friends and classmates. McGonagall’s. The horror tasted like blood on his tong and his mind twisted, curling on itself and bending unnaturally not to break. There was a monster coiled in his soul, relishing his torments and begging to be set free, watching hungrily the straining string of sanity that refused to snap.

So close to admit it. That he was a murderer. A _dangerous freak._

Asleep, there was a sort of darkness, the rich colour and scent of blood and the corpses. And sibilant whispers coming from the edges of his vision, like tendrils of thought trying to reach him. They coursed along the same feeling that pulled at his mind, like a hand patiently stretching a thin line at the back of it.

The whispers were slowly ever more bleeding into his waking moments. Even as Bellatrix held him, it was getting harder to focus on her soft voice. They were pressing, demanding his attention.

Voldemort.

The impossible thought had finally bloomed into existence, after he woke up shaking and shivering from a particularly vivid dream.

He’d been back to the graveyard. To _Him_. But this time, Voldemort’s snake had climbed onto him before he could break away and toward the cup. It had clenched the breath from his chest and collapsed him to his knees. It had pressed against him until he could not make their two bodies apart.

Harry had gazed into its eyes and seen himself reflected in their depth.

_‘We do not run, brothers-ss.’ She had whispered._

He was connected to Voldemort. Voldemort could wrap his thought, his mind. Harry looked down to his thin, dirt encrusted hands.

Voldemort could control him. The darkest wizard of their times coursed like a disease under his skin, like a rot in his soul. He crumbled in a sobbing heaps on the floor, hugging his knees against his chest.

Dumbledore must have known. He’d fought Voldemort for so long. That’s why he allowed Harry to be taken.

He belonged in Azkaban. He was a freak, and he needed to be locked up like one.

Away from normal, _clean_ people.

* * *

The cell was dark, and the flickering lights from the corridors were hardly enough to make out the body. She was pretty, Harry thought, in a daze. Her face was covered in the blood that bled from her ripped throat. He could feal reality trying to syncope, to rip him from the scene. To protect his mind. But it held, shaking before settling in place. A sickening excitement got to his throat as he raised his hands to contemplate the vibrant red painting them. The same blood that painted his arms and face, that tasted on his tong.

Soon people would be rushing in. Soon he would be thrown to the pit of the world.

Like he deserved for being the little freak he was.

His hands were shaking but he couldn’t tell wherever from fear, or excitement. He felt wrong.

He folded on himself, as a deep sob wracked his body.

_‘Harry-y.’_ He heard a voice course against his skin, like the touch of a feather and a whisp of cold air.

He kept his eyes tightly shut, afraid and resolute not to give in. To stay alone.

_‘Harry…’_ The voice sounded from right behind him. A comforting hand came to rest on his shoulder. _‘Why would you grieve for those who hurt you?’_

Harry refused to answer, keeping his lips resolutely shut and turning his head away. He heard the rustle of robes as the figure circled him slowly to face him.

‘You feel so terribly. With your childhood, how comes that you still care so deeply for those who hurt you,’ the words were laced with wonder and puzzlement, like someone indulging in figuring out a peculiarly odd puzzle.

A cold hand reached out to lift his chin. Harry’s eyes finally snapped open to find crimson. He shivered, wanting to spring away or strike. But it felt like his limbs were weighted with lead.

‘Harry Potter. The boy who lived.’

Voldemort looked just like he had in the graveyard, if only better robed. It looked odd, and as Harry tried to focus on the oddness, it looked like Voldemort’s features were blurring between his snake face and the very much human version he had met two years ago. The man smiled thinly.

‘You and I are surprisingly alike,’ Voldemort thumb grazed smudge of blood on Harry’s cheek in a slow, contemplative arc. His eyes were transfixed by the sight. ‘But you’ve been brought up to hate me, and what I stand for. The saviour of the Wizarding World. Shaped by Dumbledore as his weapon.’

‘That’s not true!’ Harry spat, his temper flaring hot for the first time in ages. ’You are lying. I hate you because it’s right, you are vile and need to be stopped. Dumbledore, he never wanted me to, too…’ but his voice faltered, uncertainty flickering the flame of his resolve.

The monster that was facing him raised a brow, which was both the elegant arch of Tom Riddle and the cruel and mocking gimmick of Voldemort. He left time ticking a few, heavy seconds before driving the knife deeper.

‘But he did, didn’t he? He wanted you to fight. To be ready to die for his cause.’ Voldemort took a step back and circled the corps on the floor, nudging the woman’s face with his foot. ‘And when his little toy soldier came out too broken for him to use freely, he discarded you.’

‘You were the one to do this to me,’ Harry seethed, trying to fight life into his limbs. He wanted to rise, to… to strike to man. Images of the blond woman trying to push him away, crying and desperate for help crashed against his eyes. Bile rose up to his throat, and he chocked. Tom closed up on him, taking Harry in an embrace he didn’t want, and yet couldn’t find in himself to reject.

‘You did this to me… You’ve turned me into a monster.’ Harry felt himself shatter, his voice coming out broken as a dry sob wreaked him. His mind felt like a shattered mirrors with its many, uneven reflections.

Tom’s arms were warmer than Bellatrix’s, stronger.

‘No Harry,’ Voldemort answered bitterly, petting the soft and blood matted hairs away from his forehead. ‘No. Those who destroyed you were the ones that pretended to love you. Until they found out you really were.’

Harry bristled, feeling like so many knives as people who had sworn to care for him were nailing him to the fortress’ stones. Azkaban’s cold seemed to seep into his bones like a frost, and his breath came out in a shaking mist.

‘But Magic has gifted you to me, Harry.’ Tom caressed Harry’s scare hungrily. ‘And I will protect you,’ his grip tightened possessively. ‘You are powerful. I’ll make sure you grow into your power. We will achieve things unfathomed by all others.’

‘I don’t believe you.’ Harry whispered. ‘You are a liar, like the rest of them.’

‘I don’t lie to you, my soul.’ Voldemort answered, drawing himself away from the teenager.

A part of Harry wanted to claw him back close again, but Harry steeled himself. He gathered his strength to stand up to the other man, defiantly. Voldemort peered into his eyes, before adding slowly, like every word that passed his lips were chiselled into stone.

‘Tell me Harry. What would you give to be taken out of Azkaban?’ He asked.

Harry’s heart missed a beat.

They were right. Bellatrix mad, whispered hopes were true.

Voldemort was powerful enough to break into Azkaban. To make them free.

A painful hope fluttered against his chest, his mouth going dry. His desperate thought vanishing like shadows in the sun.

He could be free.

‘Anything.’ He answered in a damning whisper.


	8. Upfalling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is it! This was very cathartic to write, as I have been going through difficult moments when I started this piece, and it helped a lot. I am very grateful to all of those who have read this continually and given me their inputs and comments and kudos. Just know it meant a lot for my shrivelled heart and it boosted me to go through this difficult episode of my life. So ya, thanks a lot.  
> I loved writing this as I am always hounding some grim dark content and it was good to contribute. So all in all… Cheers?  
> Wish you all the best,  
> UA

Harry woke up with a gasp, his scare pulsating like a live thing and Voldemort voice lingering in his ear.

The weak light of the rising winter sun rising managed to crawl through the small aperture in the wall of the fortress.

‘What is it, Harry?’ Bellatrix asked in a sleepy voice, trying to cocoon Harry back in the protection of her arms.

_‘Wait for me. As the sun sets today, I will come for you.’_

Harry swallowed, rattled and unsure, before letting himself be drawn back into the thin warmth of Bella’s bony frame. His head was spinning, with hope, disgust and self-loath.

He’d be sent to Azkaban because of Voldemort.

But he’d not remained in Azkaban because of him.

His stomach clenched painfully, as a vice screwed his heart.

Dumbledore had wanted him to stay locked in Azkaban. Because he was dangerous. Because he was a freak that needed to be locked up.

He knew it was the right thing. He could do the right thing. Call, scream, warn them.

They could catch Voldemort. Prepare a trap and get the monster for good.

The monster…

Around him, the fortress sounded as still and void as always, crushing him with the weights of its stones and magic. All he could hear was the shallow breath of the death eaters, and the sea assaulting the rocks.

He could try again, try again to reach out, be heard. Have hope.

Slowly he lowered his head, his eyes falling over the sharp, ink black skull tattooed onto Bellatrix wrist. The snake seemed to coil and shift toward him.

Have faith.

‘It’s nothing, Aunt Bella. Just a bad dream.’ He murmured back, slowly closing his eyes.

* * *

Tonks spotted Harry and had to swallow to keep the bile that was rising at the back of her throat? The teen was seemingly asleep, nested against Bellatrix Lestrange. When she’d come across Harry’s empty cell, she had expected some dreadful plot. But this… The too thin woman was draped over the teenager in a parody of maternal comfort and it twisted Tonks’ heart to see how Harry seemed to be desperately clutching to her in his sleep.

He looked a little better than the last time she had gotten a glimpse, but still.

She had risked sneaking down before her evening round. Since she was expected to patrol the upper levels of the fortress in a few minutes her absence would not seem suspicious.

‘Harry…’ She tried to attract the teenager’s attention without making too much of a fuss, but he seemed asleep. Bellatrix though, had turned two lamp-like eyes toward her and a wicked smile was starting to spread her lips. ‘Harry!’ Tonks hissed more urgently.

‘Bellatrix,’ a low voice called from the next cell, ‘wake Potter up, he has got a visitor.’

Tonks threw a weary glance toward the nearby cell whom she thought was Dolohov. He was watching her with sunken eyes, fidgeting absentmindedly with his sleeve. He looked… Awake. On edge.

Tonks shivered.

There was a tension running through the fortress tonight thick enough to be sliced with a knife. As weird as it sounded the dementors had been acting … off. A storm was brewing and would be hitting the island soon enough. The pressure, cold and humidity were thick in the air.

‘You shouldn’t be here.’ A young, sunken voice stated, making her jump.

Harry had silently dragged himself from across the cell to stand in front of her, a little away from the bars. Out of reach.

‘You ought to leave.’ Harry added flatly.

‘Harry,’ she whispered, grabbing the cell bars, ‘Harry I don’t have much time. I am here to pass a message.’ She tried to get his attention, but his eyes seemed shifting, agitated. ‘You need to keep faith,’ she insisted, ‘Dumbledore told me to say to you, he is doing everything he can. We are going to get you out of here.’

But even as she affirmed her message, she couldn’t help to doubt it.

There had been no official procedures undertaken. Given the proofs against Harry in the Fairweather case, -and she could hardly bear to think about it herself-, the only way to get her cousin’s godson to freedom would be to break him out.

To break Harry out of Azkaban.

She shook herself a little. They needed to trust Dumbledore. The old man knew what he was doing.

And today that meant passing her message to Harry.

‘The Weasley, Ron and Hermione. Padfoot. They asked me to tell you, that they miss you terribly. We are all with you.’

Harry’s breath hitched, his eyes welling up with tears. Despite the gloom she could still make out their distinctive greenish colour. It seemed mossy. A shiver wracked him, his breath coming short and laboured. He was going into a panic.

‘Breath Harry,’ Tonks advised, passing a hand through the bars.

But Harry jolted backward like a feral animal.

‘When?’ The teenager managed to bit out, his eyes downcast.

‘Soon,’ she answered fervently.

A few seconds of silence ticked, as Harry seemed to process her words. His breath calmed down and he raised his eyes to meet hers. The hardness in them hit her like a punch in the guts.

‘Liar.’ He denounced.

* * *

‘Liar!’ He accused.

All of them. Dumbledore, Ron, Hermione… Voldemort.

He had waited for the light to disappear, for the night to come, but Voldemort had failed him.

‘Liar,’ he spat, wrenching it from himself like his torn hope.

‘Harry, wha-‘ the auror started…

Before a terrible impact shook the fortress.

‘What’s happening!’ The woman shouted, over the noise of screeching stones and metal, drawing her wand.

Bellatrix started cackling madly, shoving herself against the wall to try and catch a glimpse of what was happening outside through the narrow overture.

Harry fell to his knees, pressing his hands against his ears to try and muffle the cacophony. There were blurs of dark colours passing in front of his eyes, and a pure exhilaration running through his veins that wasn’t _his._

He was afraid.

There was a second, ground shaking impact wracking the tower.

Suddenly there were hands grabbing him and dragging him to his feet. The young auror… Tonks? Had blasted open the cell door and was pulling him to a run.

‘We need to get out of here,’ she yelled as stones fell from the ceiling and dust smoked the corridors, blocking their vision, ‘there is an apparition point up the tower, whatever happen, keep running up!’

Running up. She must have cast something on him because there was no way he’d have the stamina to keep running in his state otherwise, ducking and dodging the collapse of ancient stones on the way.

A curse passed right by his ear, and he heard Tonks swear.

‘Keep running!’ She yelled and pushed him forward another staircase.

Instinct kicked in, a mad instinct to escape and live, and he dashed out of the line of fire. Sounds of duelling crashed behind him, with mixed shouting. His heart plummeted in his chest and he kept running up toward the apparition point, razing walls and keeping to the shadows.

Someone would know.

Someone would come and rescue him from this nightmare.

_‘Harry…’_

Everything was a blur of colours and sounds.

A silent prayer to Ron, Hermione… To Sirius, to know, to come for him…

_‘Harry.’_

Cold crashed into him. His legs hurt, and he could feel the coppery taste of blood against his rasped throat. He had reached a circular room, with wide, open windows on all sides. The sounds of the battle were muffled and drowned by the battering sound of rain against the stones, and the cracking of thunder bleeding the sky. Illuminating the gutted shape of the fortress and the shadows flying around the sky.

Rain was slapped his face blown in gush by the storm. Everything was dark, disorientating.

A thin layer of ice spread from under his feet toward the edge of the platform, his breath coming in a rasped cold mist.

He felt so cold.

Slowly he folded onto himself, shivering.

The dreaded shadows of a dozen dementors appeared, floating outside the open tower. Coming closer. He could feel them feed on him, pulling from his core, tearing apart what remained of him.

A broken sob escaped him, as he clenched his knees closer to his chest.

 _‘Harry,_ ’ the cold voice from his dream whispered into his ear. ‘Why do you flee?’

Two green, wide and broken eyes opened to peek up.

Voldemort stepped from in between the dementors, seemingly obvious to their power. Cloaked in their darkness and power, commanding the same shadows as they did.

Harry was terrified. A whimper escaped him, and he tried to scramble back but only slipped weakly on the smooth dark stone.

Voldemort let out an amused chuckle, stepping toward the child. Revelling in the connection pulsating between them.

So alive. So powerful.

It tasted of victory.

‘Hush child.’ He soothed, grabbing the boy’s chin and forcing his head up so that Harry would look into his eyes.

‘Voldemort…’ Harry whispered brokenly, his consciousness fading.

Carefully, like he would a delicate china doll, Lord Voldemort picked up the bone thin teenager in his arm. The boys head lolled on the side, a thin layer of frost already forming on his cheek, his eyes halfway open. A thunder bled the sky, revealing their bright, death-curse colour.

Beautiful.

A vicious possessiveness stabbed Voldemort. Harry was his. A beautiful gift from magic. To him who had gone further than any before him. His to keep and protect.

His to forge.

_For neither can live while the other survive._

With a faint pop, Lord Voldemort and his ward disappeared from the platform, their vanishing shape the only thing witnessed by the late arrival of a wizened old wizard.

Always to late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I really hope that you liked this last chapter. It was a really intense story to write and I have done my best to wrap it up in the same way.  
> Thank you for everything,  
> UA

**Author's Note:**

> I have been lurking the HP fandom for a while. This is my contribution and I hope it finds you. Drop a words it makes the hard work worthwhile!


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